Grey: Fifty Shades of Grey as Told by Christian (5 page)

FRIDAY, MAY 20, 2011

I’ve slept well for the first time in five days. Maybe I’m feeling the closure I had hoped for, now that I’ve sent those books to Anastasia. As I shave, the asshole in the mirror stares back at me with cool, gray eyes.

Liar.

Fuck.

Okay. Okay.
I’m hoping she’ll call. She has my number.

Mrs. Jones looks up when I walk into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey.”

“Morning, Gail.”

“What would you like for breakfast?”

“I’ll have an omelet. Thank you.” I sit at the kitchen counter as she prepares my food and leaf through
The Wall Street Journal
and
The New York Times,
then I pore over
The Seattle Times.
While I’m lost in the papers my phone buzzes.

It’s Elliot. What the hell does my big brother want?

“Elliot?”

“Dude. I need to get out of Seattle this weekend. This chick is all over my junk and I’ve got to get away.”

“Your junk?”

“Yeah. You would know if you had any.”

I ignore his jibe, and then a devious thought occurs to me. “How about hiking around Portland. We could go this afternoon. Stay down there. Come home Sunday.”

“Sounds cool. In the chopper, or do you want to drive?”

“It’s a helicopter, Elliot, and I’ll drive us down. Come by the office at lunchtime and we’ll head out.”

“Thanks, bro. I owe you.” Elliot hangs up.

Elliot has always had a problem containing himself. As do the women he associates with: whoever the unfortunate girl is, she’s just another in a long, long line of his casual liaisons.

“Mr. Grey. What would you like to do for food this weekend?”

“Just prepare something light and leave it in the fridge. I may be back on Saturday.”

Or I may not.

She didn’t give you a second glance, Grey.

Having spent a great deal of my working life managing others’ expectations, I should be better at managing my own.

ELLIOT SLEEPS MOST OF
the way to Portland. Poor fucker must be fried. Working and fucking: that’s Elliot’s raison d’être. He sprawls out in the passenger seat and snores.

Some company he’s going to be.

It’ll be after three when we arrive in Portland, so I call Andrea on the hands-free.

“Mr. Grey,” she answers in two rings.

“Can you have two mountain bikes delivered to The Heathman?”

“For what time, sir?”

“Three.”

“The bikes are for you and your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Your brother is about six-two?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get on it right away.”

“Great.” I hang up, then call Taylor.

“Mr. Grey,” he answers on one ring.

“What time will you be here?”

“I’ll check in around nine o’clock tonight.”

“Will you bring the R8?”

“With pleasure, sir.” Taylor is a car fanatic, too.

“Good.” I end the call and turn up the music. Let’s see if Elliot can sleep through The Verve.

As we cruise down I-5 my excitement mounts.

Have the books been delivered yet? I’m tempted to call Andrea again, but I know I’ve left her with a ton of work. Besides, I don’t want to give my staff an excuse to gossip. I don’t normally do this kind of shit.

Why did you send them in the first place?

Because I want to see her again.

We pass the exit for Vancouver and I wonder if she’s finished her exam.

“Hey, man, where we at?” Elliot blurts.

“Behold, he wakes,” I mutter. “We’re nearly there. We’re going mountain biking.”

“We are?”

“Yes.”

“Cool. Remember when Dad used to take us?”

“Yep.” I shake my head at the memory. My father is a polymath, a real renaissance man: academic, sporting, at ease in the city, more at ease in the great outdoors. He’d embraced three adopted kids…and I’m the one who didn’t live up to his expectations.

But before I hit adolescence we had a bond. He’d been my hero. He used to love taking us camping and doing all the outdoor pursuits I now enjoy: sailing, kayaking, biking, we did it all.

Puberty ruined all that for me.

“I figured if we were arriving mid-afternoon, we wouldn’t have time for a hike.”

“Good thinking.”

“So who are you running from?”

“Man, I’m a love-’em-and-leave-’em type. You know that. No strings. I don’t know, chicks find out you run your own business and they start getting crazy ideas.” He gives me a sideways look. “You’ve got the right idea keeping your dick to yourself.”

“I don’t think we’re discussing my dick, we’re discussing yours, and who’s been on the sharp end of it recently.”

Elliot snickers. “I’ve lost count. Anyway, enough of me. How’s the stimulating world of commerce and high finance?”

“You really want to know?” I shoot him a glance.

“Nah,” he bleats and I laugh at his apathy and lack of eloquence.

“How’s the business?” I ask.

“You checking on your investment?”

“Always.” It’s my job.

“Well, we broke ground on the Spokani Eden project last week and it’s on schedule, but then it’s only been a week.” He shrugs. Beneath his somewhat casual exterior my brother is an eco-warrior. His passion for sustainable living makes for some heated Sunday dinner conversations with the family, and his latest project is an eco-friendly development of low-cost housing north of Seattle.

“I’m hoping to install that new gray-water system I was telling you about. It will mean all the homes will reduce their water usage and their bills by twenty-five percent.”

“Impressive.”

“I hope so.”

We drive in silence into downtown Portland and just as we’re pulling into the underground garage at The Heathman—the last place I saw her—Elliot mutters, “You know we’re missing the Mariners game this evening.”

“Maybe you can have a night in front of the TV. Give your dick a rest and watch baseball.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

KEEPING UP WITH ELLIOT
is a challenge. He tears down the trail with the same devil-may-fucking-care attitude he applies to most situations. Elliot knows no fear—it’s why I admire him. But riding at this pace I have no chance to appreciate our surroundings. I’m vaguely aware of the lush greenery flashing past me, but my eyes are on the trail, trying to avoid the potholes.

By the end of the ride we’re both filthy and exhausted.

“That was the most fun I’ve had with my clothes on in a while,” Elliot says as we hand the bikes over to the bellboy at The Heathman.

“Yeah,” I mutter, and then recall holding Anastasia when I
saved her from the cyclist. Her warmth, her breasts pressed against me, her scent invading my senses.

I had my clothes on then…“Yeah,” I murmur again.

We check our phones in the elevator as we head up to the top floor.

I have e-mails, a couple of texts from Elena asking what I’m doing this weekend, but no missed calls from Anastasia. It’s just before 7:00—she must have received the books by now. The thought depresses me: I’ve come all the way to Portland on a wild-goose chase again.

“Man, that chick has called me five times and sent me four texts. Doesn’t she know how desperate she comes across?” Elliot whines.

“Maybe she’s pregnant.”

Elliot pales and I laugh.

“Not funny, hotshot,” he grumbles. “Besides, I haven’t known her that long. Or that often.”

AFTER A QUICK SHOWER
I join Elliot in his suite and we sit down to watch the rest of the Mariners game against the San Diego Padres. We order up steak, salad, fries, and a couple of beers, and I sit back to enjoy the game in Elliot’s easy company. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Anastasia’s not going to call. The Mariners are in the lead and it looks like it might be a blowout.

Disappointingly it isn’t, though the Mariners win 4–1.

Go Mariners!
Elliot and I clink beer bottles.

As the postgame analysis drones on, my phone buzzes and Miss Steele’s number flashes on the screen.

It’s her.

“Anastasia?” I don’t hide my surprise or my pleasure. The background is noisy and it sounds like she’s at a party or in a bar. Elliot glances at me, so I get up off the sofa and out of his earshot.

“Why did you send me the books?” She’s slurring her words, and a wave of apprehension ripples down my spine.

“Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange.”

“I’m not the strange one, you are.” Her tone is accusatory.

“Anastasia, have you been drinking?”

Hell.
Who is she with? The photographer? Where’s her friend Kate?

“What’s it to you?” She sounds surly and belligerent, and I know she’s drunk, but I also need to know that she’s okay.

“I’m…curious. Where are you?”

“In a bar.”

“Which bar?”
Tell me.
Anxiety blooms in my gut. She’s a young woman, drunk, somewhere in Portland. She’s not safe.

“A bar in Portland.”

“How are you getting home?” I pinch the bridge of my nose in the vain hope that the action will distract me from my fraying temper.

“I’ll find a way.”

What the hell?
Will she drive? I ask her again which bar she’s in and she ignores my question.

“Why did you send me the books, Christian?”

“Anastasia, where are you? Tell me now.”

How will she get home?

“You’re so…domineering.” She giggles. In any other situation I would find this charming. But right now—I want to show her how domineering I can be. She’s driving me crazy.

“Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?”

She giggles again.
Shit, she’s laughing at me!

Again!

“I’m in Portland…’s a long way from Seattle.”

“Where in Portland?”

“Good night, Christian.” The line goes dead.

“Ana!”

She hung up on me! I stare at the phone in disbelief. No one has ever hung up on me.
What the fuck!

“What’s the problem?” Elliot calls over from the sofa.

“I’ve just been drunk-dialed.” I peer at him and his mouth drops open in surprise.

“You?”

“Yep.” I press the callback button, trying to contain my temper, and my anxiety.

“Hi,” she says, all breathy and timid, and she’s in quieter surroundings.

“I’m coming to get you.” My voice is arctic as I wrestle with my anger and snap my phone shut.

“I’ve got to go get this girl and take her home. Do you want to come?”

Elliot is staring at me as if I’ve grown three heads.

“You? With a chick? This I have to see.” Elliot grabs his sneakers and starts putting them on.

“I just have to make a call.” I wander into his bedroom while I decide if I should call Barney or Welch. Barney is the most senior engineer in the telecommunications division of my company. He’s a tech genius. But what I want is not strictly legal.

Best to keep this away from my company.

I speed-dial Welch and within seconds his rasping voice answers.

“Mr. Grey?”

“I’d really like to know where Anastasia Steele is right now.”

“I see.” He pauses for a moment. “Leave it to me, Mr. Grey.”

I know this is outside the law, but she could be getting herself into trouble.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll get back to you in a couple of minutes.”

Elliot is rubbing his hands with glee, with a stupid smirk on his face when I return to the living room.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he says, gloating.

“I’m just going to get the car keys. I’ll meet you in the garage in five,” I growl, ignoring his smug face.

THE BAR IS CROWDED,
full of students determined to have a good time. There’s some indie crap thumping over the sound system and the dance floor is crowded with heaving bodies.

It makes me feel old.

She’s here somewhere.

Elliot has followed me in through the front door. “Do you see her?” he shouts over the noise. Scanning the room, I spot Katherine Kavanagh. She’s with a group of friends, all of them men, sitting in a booth. There’s no sign of Ana, but the table is littered with shot glasses and tumblers of beer.

Well, let’s see if Miss Kavanagh is as loyal to her friend as Ana is to her.

She looks at me in surprise when we arrive at her table.

“Katherine,” I say by way of greeting, and she interrupts me before I can ask her Ana’s whereabouts.

“Christian, what a surprise to see you here,” she shouts above the noise. The three guys at the table regard Elliot and me with hostile wariness.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“And who’s this?” She smiles rather too brightly at Elliot, interrupting me again. What an exasperating woman.

“This is my brother Elliot. Elliot, Katherine Kavanagh. Where’s Ana?”

Her smile broadens at Elliot, and I’m surprised by his answering grin.

“I think she went outside for some fresh air,” Kavanagh responds, but she doesn’t look at me. She has eyes only for Mr. Love ’Em and Leave ’Em. Well, it’s her funeral.

“Outside? Where?” I shout.

“Oh. That way.” She points to double doors at the far end of the bar.

Pushing through the throng, I make my way to the door, leaving the three disgruntled men and Kavanagh and Elliot engaged in a grin-off.

Through the double doors there is a line for the ladies’ washroom, and beyond that a door that’s open to the outside. It’s at the back of the bar. Ironically, it leads to the parking lot where Elliot and I have just been.

Walking outside, I find myself in a gathering space adjacent to
the parking lot—a hangout flanked by raised flowerbeds, where a few people are smoking, drinking, chatting. Making out. I spot her.

Hell!
She’s with the photographer, I think, though it’s difficult to tell in the dim light. She’s in his arms, but she seems to be twisting away from him. He mutters something to her, which I don’t hear, and kisses her, along her jaw.

“José, no,” she says, and then it’s clear. She’s trying to push him off.